My Brother's Keeper Failed
by lookingfornargles
Summary: It's been over four years after the Battle of Hogwarts, and Ron finds himself at an all-time low. How will he get his life back together, when every time he tries, things just keep falling apart? In progress. CW: alcohol, suicide
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my very first fanfic, and I'm nervous, so please review! I hope you like it, and I know it starts out dark, but it DOES get better :)**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Harry Potter franchise, and make no profit from this story.  
**

Ron could feel himself slipping into the familiar haze of brandy-induced stupor he'd become so accustomed to. His eyes, partially closed, went in and out of focus as he gazed around the sitting room of the small house where he and Hermione lived. Magically suspended candles cast looming shadows around the stuffy, dark room, throwing into sharp relief empty bottles strewn about the floor, piles of food-caked plates teetering dangerously on every available surface, and Ron's own worn face and violently red hair prematurely streaked with grey. A week's worth of dust coated the surfaces. Ron had not found the energy to clean with Hermione gone. Though she came home on weekends, Hermione worked during the weeks at Hogwarts. Come to think of it, she should've been home by now...

It now seemed a lifetime ago it was discovered that Madam Pince had not survived the Battle of Hogwarts, and in the ensuing push to piece the school back together, Hermione volunteered to take over librarian duties until they'd found a suitable replacement. It turned out, as Hermione had been through every book in the library at least twice, that she was immediately deemed best for the position, and a rather drastic improvement to Madam Pince's waspish disposition. She enthusiastically accepted the job (the only objection came from Argus Filch, the Hogwarts caretaker, who had long been suspected amongst students as having been sweet on Madam Pince, and was understood to have objected on principle), and had been working there ever since.

Reminiscing, Ron sunk deeper into his usual overstuffed chair by the fireplace, which sat cold and empty. No matter how he tried to rally and find some new source of motivation to get his life back on track, he knew he was steadily sliding further and further away from happiness. It had been happening for some time, but he could never really admit it to anyone, least of all to himself. His limbs felt heavier with the passing minutes, his mind foggier. Deep down, Ron knew that alcohol wasn't an effective coping strategy, but it was certainly easier than facing his current reality.

Fred's death had impacted the Weasley family in an irreversible way, though afterward they made great strides to go through the motions of healthy and productive grieving. They were learning how to be a family again. Percy was perhaps the most willing to offer a shoulder to cry on, no doubt trying to make up for lost time when he had estranged himself from his family while working at the Ministry under Bartemius Crouch Sr.

The Weasleys did not mourn alone; families up and down the country were rent with grief after the Battle of Hogwarts. Many had to rediscover trust and love and belonging, even forging new and sometimes unlikely connections to help heal. For the most part, Fred's surviving family and friends held fast to one another for support. The process had brought them closer than ever before, but it was long after the dust had settled on the ramparts of Hogwarts before the family managed to find some semblance of stability. Until recently, they had been doing better—Ron and Hermione had even wed the previous April.

They'd been surrounded by friends and loved ones in a simple, sweet ceremony in the same soft, grassy yard on the Weasleys' property where Bill and Fleur had married—though Ron and Hermione got to have a full reception afterward, the only interruptions being the odd eccentric comment from Luna and the occasional outburst from the increasingly senile, yet unnervingly vivacious, Aunt Muriel. Planning for the wedding had given the family something positive to focus on, and there were moments when everything seemed normal, even carefree, again.

At one point, quiet laughter had gone around the Weasleys' dinner table as, upstairs, Hermione loudly argued with Ron about why their wedding theme couldn't be the Chudley Cannons' color scheme ("Ron, I don't care if you always pictured yourself getting married in a Chudley Cannons jersey, if you want to go looking like a flaming pumpkin, you can just go marry yourself!") They finally decided on lilac and cream, and Hermione compromised with orange carnations as accents on the wedding party. They'd also imported striking orange and yellow Monarch butterflies that flitted in between the guests' gilded chairs and about the garden. Fred's portrait had been set to the left of the wedding party, grinning cheekily at all the guests, and occasionally sneaking a rude gesture. And although expressions flickered bittersweet when they caught sight of Fred's winking face, Ron and Hermione's wedding marked a turning point for the family. Despite all the pain they had endured in the three years since Fred's death, they were all reminded that the intensity of their grief had been rooted in their deep ability to love, and that through that love would they find resilience.

It was George's suicide a year later, however, that plunged the Weasley family into a deeper despair than any they had known, and had driven Ron to his current state. It turned out that George had never fully recovered from losing his twin, although he became very good at hiding it. Though George never was quite as goofy again as before Fred's death, he eventually returned to the joke shop they'd started together, and had seemed to be doing much better. But three months ago, the rest of the family awoke with a start to Mrs. Weasley's hysterical screaming.

They rushed, pyjama-clad, to her aid, imagining some menacing intruder or attacker, and found her in the twins' old bedroom, collapsed at the foot of George's bed. There, so peaceful he could have been sleeping, lay George's body, an empty bottle of unlabeled potion beside him. Clutched in his arms was the portrait of Fred that had been at Ron's wedding, but now two identical faces, with three ears between them, grinned out at them from inside the portrait frame.

"I hope you can find it in your hearts someday to forgive me. In the meantime, I'll be making all kinds of trouble with Fred up there, so don't you worry about me," read the note lying next to him. George's messy writing went on to explain that he never had and never would achieve peace over Fred's death, as the rest of the family had seemed to. To spare them more pain, he'd adeptly learned to hide his agony. But his grief had gotten the better of him, and so he had made the difficult decision to finally give himself lasting relief. It was signed simply, "all my love, George," and that was it.

The following weeks were a hazy, painful blur. Ron couldn't remember when he had started drinking, though he thought it was shortly after they buried George next to Fred. In fact, he tried not to remember at all. Ron drained the last of his brandy and let his empty glass fall to the floor, where it clinked loudly against the bottles there. Ron started to drift into yet another drunken daze, but was shaken awake by loud pounding at the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry about the long absence, hopefully y'all like this chapter. Please review! Big thanks to all those who reviewed and followed on the first chapter! I have several different ideas moving forward, so you'll just have to wait and see how it plays out! Enjoy:)** **Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the HP franchise, and make no profit from this story.**

The deafening booms coming from the entranceway seemed to reverberate nauseatingly around Ron's skull. He groggily got to his feet and slowly stumbled his way around the obstacle course presented by the debris on the floor. The pounding on the door continued. He reached it, and wrenched it open.

"Whozzere?" He slurred. The blinding July afternoon sun pouring through the open doorway momentarily stunned Ron, but he could just make out a silhouetted figure on the doorstep. As his eyes readjusted to the harsh change in lighting, he realized that his younger sister, Ginny Weasley, stood before him. She wore a look of the utmost revulsion.

She pushed past him without a word, and began to move around the sitting room. She opened all the curtains and windows that had been tightly shut, shedding bright light onto the abysmal state of the room. A fresh summer breeze rolled in, lifting some of the air of doom and gloom from the place. Ron turned around, bewildered, and watched her from the still-open doorway. Ginny took notice, and angrily turned to face him.

"What the actual fuck, you stinking git?! Where have you been?" Ginny snapped at him. She then gestured to the room, horrified. "And what in the name of Merlin have you done to this place?!"

It was obviously a rhetorical question, so he looked down at his feet in reply. He realized was wearing one slipper and one dress shoe, a fact he hadn't noticed until just now. Ginny continued to stomp about the room, now levitating large piles of moldy something-or-other to the kitchen sink or bin, depending on what was worth saving.

Ginny stopped for a second and looked, exasperated, at Ron. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Ron, just sit down," she snapped. "I'll mix you up something to help with… whatever this is," gesturing with her hand in the air to indicate all of him. He shut the front door and skulked back to his overstuffed sofa chair, while Ginny proceeded to clear away the worst of Ron's mess. He looked at the floor, but could still see her moving through his peripheral vision. He heard bubbling from the kitchen, and knew that Ginny was brewing a potion to help pull him back from his drunken state. Finally, she threw herself down in a chair matching Ron's, facing him and the fireplace.

She took a deep breath. "Ron," she said, with a gentler tone in her voice than she'd had before. He looked up at her. She was leaning forwards, her elbows resting on her knees and her hands clasped together. He could tell she was sad, and this seemed to make him feel worse than he already did.

"Ron, we need to talk about this," she stated.

"Whuzzerda talk abow?" Ron slurred. He leaned back and crossed his arms in front of his body defensively. Ginny stared back at him for a moment, sighed, and rose to attend to the potion brewing in the kitchen.

"It's no use trying to talk sense into you when you're like this," she called, as she rummaged through the kitchen cabinets. She returned, carrying a frothing mug of something that smelled strongly of peppermint.

"I added a couple extra ingredients," Ginny said, "to mask the taste." Ron shakily took the mug from her, and a little spilled over the rim and dribbled onto his lap.

"It won't be the best going down, but it'll give you some energy." she said, and sat down facing him again. Ron had no energy to fight her on this. He mumbled something that might have been thanks, and took a large swig of the potion.

As soon as it passed his lips, he felt a burning sensation that coursed down his throat and into his stomach. The feeling got more and more intense with every passing second. Aside from the burning, the potion had a keenly unpleasant taste, like taking a large bite out of a piece of bread you didn't realize was moldy. Ron started coughing, slopping more of the potion onto himself.

"Whaddre you tryna do, kill me?!" Spluttered Ron in between coughs. His speech still came out slurred, but less so.

"I warned you it wouldn't be so great. You should drink more, though, it'll help, " said Ginny, who'd been watching him with a look of pity, still tinged with disgust. Ron could feel the fog lifting from his mind and body. Ginny was coming into clear focus, and he felt the slow return of the familiar, painful ache around the invisible chasm in his chest left by George's absence. He took a couple more sips, each followed by a fit of coughing. By now, he'd managed to slop much of the potion onto his lap. Ginny watched him and sighed heavily.

Ron drained the last dregs of his potion and said with a grimace, "How, exactly, did you try to make this taste better? Blech!" His voice now sounded firm, and he enunciated clearly.

Ignoring Ron's question with a wave of her hand, Ginny said clearly, "Ron, we're all concerned for you. Dad and Mum especially are worried sick. None of us are doing great, to be honest, but no one's isolated themselves from the family like you have." When Ron didn't answer, Ginny continued. "Ron, talk to me. You can't do this by yourself. You're definitely not functioning right now," she said, with a glance around the somewhat cleaner room.

Ron was no longer looking at her, but staring at the floor. He said nothing. The minutes ticked by in silence. Ginny took out her wand and bewitched a dust cloth to start cleaning surfaces, still focused on Ron. Ron refused to say anything. After the dust had been cleaned, Ginny flicked her wand absentmindedly towards the kitchen, where clinks and clunks sounded as the dishes started washing themselves. Finally, he broke the silence.  
"Why are you here?" he asked quietly, still looking at the floor.

"Ron, are you serious?" she asked, looking stunned. "You haven't heard anything I've said at all! Your family loves you, Ron. We're hurting just as much as you are. We're all still in shock. None of us saw this coming, we—"

"But we should have!" Ron suddenly exploded, almost standing up from his chair. Taken aback by the sudden show of emotion, Ginny fell silent. "We should have seen it coming, Ginny! I'm sure there were signs we just missed, or things we should've said! It was our fault George died!" His last words rang out, and hung heavy in the air. Ginny just stared at him, her eyebrows knit tight together. Ron noticed Ginny's eyes start to glisten, and he quickly looked at the floor again, his ears reddening.

"Ginny, we should have known," he repeated quietly. "We should've tried talking to him more or stop by the store to help pick up more shifts. There had to have been something we could've done. Don't you ever wonder how it could possibly be that we all missed something?" At these last words, he looked up at her again and saw that silent tears were etching glistening trails down her cheeks. He didn't look away this time.

Finally, she spoke, her voice breaking. "Ron, George doesn't need us anymore…" her voice trailed off. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. She looked back at him and continued shakily. "But of course I've wondered. We all feel guilty to some extent. We all felt like we were doing better. And even you know George had seemed much happier, we all thought so." She paused, before continuing.

"But I don't think there's anything more we could have really done, Ron. He never let any of us in—we were all clueless. And I think Mum and Dad are worried that you're going down the same path as George, just in a more obvious way. To be honest, I'm worried too. We've hardly seen you since the funeral, and you never answer any of our owls." For the first time, it was she who broke their gaze.

Her head sunk low and she started picking at her nails. "It's easier with family, Ron," she mumbled. "We miss you." Her voice broke at the last words. Tears dripped onto her fidgeting hands.

Ron felt a twinge of guilt in his gut. This was true, he hadn't been responsive, and he'd cut himself off from the family almost entirely. And as surprisingly violent as Ginny's cleaning spree had been, he realized it'd been a labour of love.

He knew Ginny hated cleaning up after other people, and as he looked around the room, he realized it hardly resembled the pit of despair it had been an hour ago. Surfaces sparkled, the pillows on the couch seemed fluffier, and a warm breeze swept through the room from the open windows, bringing with it the delicate scent of ripe pears from the tree in the back yard.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized that Ginny was right. He was a mess, and he did need help. They'd already gone through this once before as a family. And while they could never have imagined in their darkest nightmares that they would be grieving another family member so soon, they were nevertheless ultimately stronger together. And while the hole in his chest left by George's absence was still very painfully there, he felt a glimmer of something he hadn't felt in a long time: hope.

"Hey, Ginny…. Er… Thanks…" he said awkwardly. He wasn't quite sure how else to express what he was feeling. She looked up from her hands, and wiped her nose noisily on her sleeve. She nodded, and he realized she had understood what he could not say.

All of a sudden he realized that he was still sitting stupidly in a small puddle of the potion Ginny had made him. He looked down at the pyjamas he was still wearing and immediately felt foolish. His ears turned red again, clashing dramatically with his hair.

"Wow, I really am a bit of a basket case, aren't I?" he asked, and heard a small chuckle from Ginny. He looked up at her, a and couldn't hide a small grin. Although the ache in his chest was more acute than before, this was easily the best he'd felt since George's death. It suddenly occurred to him that the Friday sun was sinking slowly into the horizon, and Hermione wasn't home from her week at work yet.

Ron looked back at Ginny. "Hey Gin, have you maybe heard from Hermione? She should have been back by now…" Hermione and Ginny had become very close since they all had left school years ago.

Her eyes involuntarily widened ever so slightly, but she quickly looked away out the window, as if looking for Hermione, and said, "Oh! Um, yeah… She should be back soon, I think. I talked to her yesterday and she said she had a, um, a meeting, or something…" Her voice trailed off unconvincingly. Ron looked at her, his eyebrows raised.

"A meeting? What could she possibly have to meet about? She's the only library staff..." Ron looked back down at his lap, in which the remnants of potion were starting to dry. Distracted, he said, "Well, I'm going to go get cleaned up before she gets here. Do you want to stay for dinner?"

Ginny looked back at him, and said, "I'd love to, but only as long as you're cooking." Ron smirked.  
"But don't tell Hermione I said that!" Ginny added quickly. Ron grinned in earnest; Hermione's cooking hadn't improved much since she'd cooked their meals while on the run and looking for Horcruxes, even when she'd had stores of ingredients at her wand tip.

Ron, however, had discovered a hidden talent: he was a natural chef. He'd been privileged enough to have had all his meals cooked by others growing up. As such, he had only discovered a love of cooking after he had been forced to fend for himself when Hermione took the job at Hogwarts—Hermione had been livid when Ron meekly suggested they employ a house-elf. She'd never quite given up on house-elf rights, and even still had some old S.P.E.W. badges lying around somewhere.

At first, Ron had eaten what Hermione called, "the college diet" (a muggle phrase that Hermione explained meant that one subsisted mainly on boxed pasta and canned marinara sauce). As he'd lost his job after George died and had little else to do but eat and exercise, he quickly tired of this.

Slowly, he began to experiment with different recipes and ingredients, and discovered that he sincerely appreciated the subtle magic of cooking. He thought it odd, as it seemed a little like potions sometimes, which he remembered hating in school. But he figured he could appreciate working hard for a good meal much more than a steaming cauldron full of smelly potion almost any day.

Ron summoned a hand towel with his wand from the kitchen and mopped up the remainder of the potion in his lap that hadn't yet dried. "Well, I'm off to shower, then," he said, rising from his chair. "Feels a bit superfluous after all this to say 'make yourself at home,' but you're welcome to anything you can find." Ron started making his way to the bathroom, but turned back.

"There's a bit of Freshwater Plimpie soup that Luna brought over last week, it's… not half bad?" Ron added unconvincingly, grinning at the look of apprehension on his sister's face. He then shuffled out of sight and Ginny was left in the sparkling living room, shaking her head and laughing at what a complete idiot her brother was.


End file.
